Some men have wonderful hair. It’s bouncy, full-bodied, and does whatever they want, whenever they ask. I hate these men.
If the Karma Fairies did their job right, these men would all have crabgrass, or unexpected car troubles, or other problems to deal with. But no. I have to have limp hair and have my car break down.
It’s Sunday morning, and the entire family is in the van on the way to church. I won’t say what make it was, but when I bought it, it had 90,000 miles on it and people said, “90,000 miles? On an X? Why, it’s as good as new!”
On my first day in Italy, sometime in July 1980, I decided that the little sheet of tourist phrases I had been given wasn’t enough, so I set out to find a bookstore and buy an Italian-English dictionary. (This was Gaeta, a beautiful little tourist town about 100 km south of Rome on the west coast.) I found the bookstore, but horrors! — it wasn’t self-service. All the books were behind an imposing front desk, and I’d have to make my wishes known to the clerk, a cute girl about my own age (18). She looked at me with bright and friendly eyes and asked something in Italian, presumably “May I help you?”